Next, you stop at the plasticware shop and press the shopkeeper for a deal—you are buying not one but six plastic jars after all. On the way home, as the rickshaw swerves along the narrow streets, your thoughts do, too.
Nonfiction
A Blur in the Field
If you squint at the 1916 county atlas and plat book, you can make out a farmer’s first and last name inked on a wedge of land tucked under a curve of the Arkansas River. The farmer named this place Jingletown.
B is for Boxes (and other essays)
I imagine this again and again: on a raft, in a passenger car, I’m crouching or sitting and there in the creek, beside the tracks, I see an object but can’t tell what it is, a thing obscured by the murk of the water, the speed of the train. A large rock, or a fallen tree, or broken concrete with rebar, or a wooden box. I don’t want to think it could be a body.